


The Color Line

by Zighana



Category: The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: 1960s, Backstory, Black Panthers, Culture, Dallas Speaks German, F/M, German Speaking Characters, Harlem, Heartbreak, Infidelity, Interracial Relationship, Love, Police Brutality, Racial Identity, Racism, Rape, Social Justice, Vietnam War, Violence, race relations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2018-11-19 16:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11317545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zighana/pseuds/Zighana
Summary: Dally becomes the talk of the town when he introduces his new girlfriend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my many (unfinished) works from my fanfiction.net account :https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1819159/Zighana
> 
> It's a story about Dally getting involved with a black girl during the racially charged era of the 60s. As a woman of color, I wanted to write not from this idealized perspective of race, nor the dark and dreary perspective, but of a realistic one. I wanted these characters of color to be breathing, alive, and willing to tell you their story.

The closest thing Dallas Winston got to a dialogue about race was when he grew up in Harlem, New York. It was the ghettos; people who were poor, desperate, and all different colors of the multicultural rainbow, would be crammed into the projects to hide white America from the ugliness of prejudice. He and his parents were the handful of white tenants crammed in the multitude of browns and blacks; they were specks of salt in the sea of pepper, oddities that have no business existing where they don’t belong.

But they did belong; they were people struggling to survive because they couldn’t fit into the mold of American society: middle class, nuclear family, patriotic, white. Dallas’s German-Sicilian heritage, low-class income, broken family and slight hatred of American government doesn’t quite make the cut; he and his family are lumped together with the other rejects, all struggling to survive in the melting pot known as Harlem. 

He was exposed to drugs, crime, sex, and desperation, all through the thin walls of his home. He’d witness someone get murdered from his window, taste the iron from blood as someone gets beaten to a pulp, hear the noises of women’s moans as they whore themselves out for money. Despite those moments of despair, there was one thing that remains: love.

He'd witness love at the age of eight, when his mother and father would dance together under the soft glow of candles after their lights got cut off, humming an old tune from their youth while Dallas watches in wonder. He then learned the power of love, the word of sweetness and warmth, radiating from his mother as she’d tell stories of her youth. She was the most important woman in their lives; when she died, Dallas took it pretty hard, but his father took it the hardest.

His father isn’t a cold man from Dallas’s understanding; he’s just stuck in the past. A German immigrant who fled his country in the 30s, he’s a man who didn’t fit in to this American world of fast pace and ignorance. It didn’t help that he still had his accent and struggled with English after 15 years. His wife, Teresa, was the only form of communication he has with the American language; she became his translator and encyclopedia of American society who also did all the grunt work in legal documents and networking. After she died, it was Dallas that took her place.

It wasn’t easy being in his shoes, handling adult responsibilities while being a kid. While others played and had fun, Dallas was translating from English to German about legal documents, bills, and something as simple as ordering food at a restaurant. He was the one to force his father into socializing; you could only stay in your home for so long. It took years for his father to finally assimilate into American society and speak perfect English. Despite the steps forward, he was still stuck in his archaic way of thinking.

“Don’t bring home any darkies, son.”

Dallas spat out his soup.

He was shy of 13, free from his two weeks in the cooler. He and his father are at his favorite restaurant, on a snowy afternoon in the middle of December. His father looks at Dallas with his stern blue eyes.

“What are you talking about?” He asks his father, his cheeks turning red from the embarrassment and the cold.

His father looks out at the window, snarling so much his canines are bared. Dallas looks out the window and sees the image that offends his father so.

There, walking down the avenue hand in hand, is a white boy and a black girl. They’re smiling, laughing, oblivious to the cold stare his father is giving them.

“Disgusting,” he snarls when the couple exchange a soft kiss.

Dallas didn’t see much of a problem; couples like that come a plenty, especially in their projects. Him and his father see them all the time and his father hasn’t said so much as a word about it. Why now?

“What is?”

“Them. Those negresses are good for one thing. Don’t you dare be an embarrassment like that man and bring home a goddamn nigger.”

Dallas flinches at the word.

His friend Ricky told him not to say that word; it’s an evil word, a cruel word, a word that makes Ricky ball his fist and fight him. It’s a word of anger and hate; Dallas had heard enough of Ricky’s stories to know that.

He wants to say something, tell him that his words are wrong and that Ricky wouldn’t like it if he said such things to his face. Instead, he says nothing; he watches the couple walk past them, eyes gleaming with apology. He loses his appetite and pushes his food away.

“What’s wrong, son?”

“Nothing. I’ve lost my appetite for the day.” 

That night, he lied in bed thinking about his father’s words. He feels that his words are wrong because Ricky said so, yet he was raised to believe his father’s word is always right. But his words sound so awful and cruel; his mother always told him to not hate anyone without a good reason. What have they done to his father for him to react this way? Nothing; all the couple did was hold hands and mind their business. He kept thinking about the words he heard his father say, weighing it with Ricky’s horror stories of what those words cost him. Those words swirled and mixed in his head until his head hurt and he couldn’t tell who said what and what was actually said. He closed his eyes, vowing to push it back and never think about it again. 

“We’re moving to Oklahoma.”

It’s been a year since that conversation; Dallas is eating corn flakes when he broke the news. 

His father earned a job that pays handsomely; they could live a fresh start. Dallas would leave Harlem behind, leave Ricky, Marco, and Delilah behind for a dry ass town in the middle of nowhere. Tulsa, what the hell kind of name is that? That sounds like a soda-pop brand or something.

Not that he had much of a choice; he’d six weeks to pack his bags, wave his friends goodbye and head west.

He looks out from his porch as his father packs the last of his things in the van. The sticky summer made his clothes cling to his body; he’s going to miss the refreshing taste of Ricky’s mom’s homemade iced tea with the mint leaves inside. Ricky watches from the comfort of the fifth floor, shouting out promises and for him to always write. Dallas scoffs. They both know good and well they’re damn near illiterate; what business they have writing to each other if both can’t read? 

“I’m mad you’re leavin’.” Marco grumbles, throwing his ball at the brick wall. Delilah is sitting on the porch next to him, smoking a cigarette and trying to comb through her freshly flat-ironed hair that’s curling up at the roots.

“Oklahoma is a hick town. It’s filled with those good ol’ boys who like to wear sheets and scare people. Momma told me all about it. You best be careful. They don’t think like we do.” She flips her hair, her light brown skin glowing in the sun. 

“Man, shut up, high yella. There you go again, talking that mess. You forget Dally’s a white boy, un guero. He’ll fit in just fine.” Marco enunciates with a faux Southern accent, making the three giggle.

“I’m gonna miss you guys, you know. I doubt Oklahoma got red beans and rice, Cuban style.”

“I wish you could read so I can send you my address and you can write to us. Come visit us when you get the money. We’ll still be here.” Delilah’s green eyes flicker over to him. Marco claps his hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah. We’ll be around.”

“Dallas!”

His father. 

“I think it’s time for me to leave.” He leaves the stoop, giving his friends a sad look before making his way for the van.

“Wait!”

Delilah embraces him.

“Don’t you ever change, not for nobody.” She says in his ear.

He leaves, the dull static of the radio and his father’s lectures about his friends in German fading away as he looks out at his window and watches the boroughs, the streets, the town and the smells leave him. 

He will never forget New York.

“What the hell were you thinking, provoking the cops like that? If I hadn’t leapt in front of that police car and tackled you I don’t know what I’d…”

Dallas opens his eyes and is blinded by white light. He’s in a holding cell of sorts, nursing a broken arm and a splitting headache. His father had been cursing and berating him in angry German while his friends look on in horror and confusion. 

He wishes he was dead.

“Dallas Winston, you’re quite popular here.”

“Shut up, porky. What charge you got me on?”

“Possession of an illegal firearm, attempted robbery, and attempted assault on a police officer with a deadly weapon.”

“That heater ain’t even loaded.”

“You think we care?”

“Please, officer. It’s been a long night. I come home from a long day at work and I’m exhausted. May I please speak to my son?” his father asks.

“If you like, Mr. Winston.”

Mr. Winston looks over at his son, his blue eyes turning icy.

“You idiot! I’ve never thought you’d do this of all things just to prove how much of a fuck up you are! Robbery? Stealing my goddamn gun and pointing it at a fucking cop? If your mother were alive I’d ask her if she dropped you on your head as an infant!” 

“Shut the fuck up, old man. Don’t act like you care now that I almost died.”

“I always cared for you, you ungrateful brat! Every penny I made went to the house, the bills, the food on the table! You think it’s easy raising a teenager who is driving me to an early grave from the many nights seeing you in jail? Filing out reports and scraping enough cash to bail you out?”

“Who said I wanted you to? You knew I made my own money at the rodeos.”

“Rodeos!” He booms, laughing a dark laugh and looking over at Dallas’s friends to see if they’re in on the joke. “He says ‘I made my own money at the rodeos’!” he mocks, eyes twinkling with sarcasm. 

“The rodeos! What are you, some hillbilly now? Some wannabe cowboy riding off into the sunset?”

“It’s the only honest thing I do for money that I like, Father. You’d have known had you actually visited and watched me ride.” 

“What the hell are you guys saying? Where’s a goddamn translator when you need him?” Two-Bit cries, tearing at his hair.

“In true American fashion, lazy hillbilly doesn’t want to learn a language and wants it hand-fed to him.” Mr. Winston mutters. 

“Don’t start. You’ve been living in America for over 30 years, old man. You should know they don’t speak German here.”

“Fair enough.” 

Mr. Winston looks over at his friends once more.

“My name is Franz Winston, Dallas’s father. I believe we haven’t met. I’d prefer if we met on…different circumstances, but life has a funny way of changing plans.” 

He laughs a bitter laugh and shakes his head.

“What have they done to you, my son?”

Dallas has an uncanny habit of getting his way. 

Despite the charges stacked against him, he got lucky; the robbery charge was dropped because there wasn’t enough monetary value stolen for it to be considered robbery (he left the cash right by the door and booked it), because the gun was registered in his father’s name and it isn’t loaded, that charged was dropped as well. The only remaining charge was attempted assault, but that charge didn’t hold much weight; they still needed to punish him for giving the police grief. The sentence was relatively light: 30 days in the cooler with the possibility for getting out on good behavior.

Dallas smirked as his favorite cop turns cherry red and his fat finger glides over his neck.

He kisses at him.

“Things are going to change around here, Dallas. You are going to be an adult in a matter of weeks and you need to start being a productive member of society.” 

Dallas rolls his eyes. Not again. 

They had this conversation before: his father would make an empty promise about being more involved in his life and making Dallas turn his life around for the better, only to falter and let his son run wild because apparently work is more important than family. And then, like clockwork, Dallas would be thrown back in jail and once he gets out, he makes those empty promises again.

“This time I’m serious.”

It’s almost verbatim.

“Cut the father act, old man. I know you don’t keep your promises.” He barks.

“Son, I’m doing the best I can but I work. You may not understand, but it cost money to keep this house afloat and put food on the table. Would you rather we be homeless and out on the street?”

“But is it worth missing birthdays, Christmases, father-son bonding over playing ball? The many nights I’d come home to an empty house? What’s the point of working for a house that you don’t even live in?”

“It’s part of the American Dream, Dallas. You work for the nice house, the white picket fence, the happy family and the glory of the red, white, and blue. That’s the main reason I left Germany and came here.”

“The American Dream is a lie, Pop. We’re the poorest people in town, on the wrong side of the tracks, struggling to get by even with you working double the hours you worked in New York. Being poor isn’t part of the American Dream.”

“You don’t know poor! This is the richest thing in the world compared to my years in Germany! Back then, money was worthless; we used it as wallpaper and fuel for fire on those cold days. You don’t know the true pain of receiving letters of loved ones dying in gas chambers, friends you’ve grown up with ripped away by death and destruction, family scattered everywhere in the world for safety and never hearing from them again. You don’t know what it’s like to be cold in the worst of winters and have nothing to keep you warm but the books you had to burn and the memories that burned with it. 

“This country’s little grievances mean nothing to what I’ve experienced. Here, you have a chance. You have a voice. You have a reason to keep moving on. You wake up every day and work hard to pay a debt to this country, to earn your right of being an American. You were born in this privilege; you never experienced the hardships that me and the parents of your mother experienced.” He looked over at his son, “You need to be thankful for what you have and not let it go to waste.”

“I don’t need your lectures about how I should be thankful to be in this awful place. Have you not watched the news? People are getting drafted left and right to fight some Orientals in ‘Nam. Some of my friends are coming back with missing limbs and some not at all. They’re picking the poorest bastards to draft and let me tell you, old man. I’m next.” 

For once in what feels like forever, Dallas watches his father’s face go pale.

“Let’s prepare for when that day comes,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Right now, let’s work on getting you a job.”


	2. The Factory

He starts working after three weeks.

It was surprisingly easy; Darry had seen him and after they exchanged words Darry put in a good word for him. The employer met him, shook his hand, and said, “You’re a wild one, but I see that you’re an honest man under all that grease. I trust Darry that you won’t be a mistake.” Dallas bit his tongue and took the compliment, bent on working to prove himself to his father. He breezed through orientation, the tutorials of how machinery works and how to put in time slots for lunch breaks and off time. After the basics were established, Dallas was assigned to work in the assembly line for the toy parts.

His job is, in some sick joke, at a toy factory. A toy factory that actually manufactures toys he used to play with in his youth. As he screws on the head of yet another teddy bear, he sees his past staring back at him with sad brown eyes and fur. He resists the urge to tear that thing to pieces to bury his emotions. 

That teddy bear was the last thing his mother gave him before she succumbed to her illness; it was the last thing he had left of her that was lost in their move to Oklahoma. It felt like a punishment to make the very thing he lost, a punishment for his awful behavior committed while his innocent mother looks down from Heaven.

He takes the punishment willingly.

It wasn’t so bad; half the workers are within his age group and come from the wrong side of the tracks, a handful of them are drinking buddies with Buck and Tim. The older, more laid back demographic of workers are comrades of Darry’s, blue collar men who simply work to feed their families; Dallas would see snippets of children’s photos in wallets as proud fathers chatter about the toys they’re going to get for their little Sally or rambunctious Thomas.

He, for some bizarre reason, attracts coworkers who want his friendship. He doesn’t understand why; he hardly talks and if he does communicate it’s in grunts or curses. He’s not a very social person by the farthest stretch of imagination; outside of his Greasers, he’s simply a man who prefers to not exist and to simply observe. He became known at his job as “the Mute”, and the coworkers would make a game to see if they could pry information out of him for laughs. The next contender is up for the challenge.

“So, you watch the game last night?”

“Doll Number 47 needs more paint on the lips.” Dallas responds, shoving the doll in his coworker’s hands. He’s not in the mood; the holidays are rolling around the corner and they have to work quickly and efficiently to make as many toys as possible for the hungry shoppers looking for a last minute present. If they don’t meet the quota by next week, all of their paychecks are getting slashed and damn the possible Christmas bonus.

The worker, visibly amused by the response, takes the doll and applies the paint. The next one comes up.

“You know, there’s this party happening on Christmas Eve. We’ve got eggnog.” He wags his eyebrows. It’s Jim, the sanctified holy man who’s a wet blanket for anyone looking for a good time. Dallas knows that Jim’s idea of fun is sitting around in a circle talking about Jesus and playing wholesome games with the family. No booze, no sex, no rock ‘n’ roll and especially no grass to mellow him out. 

He’d much rather kill himself.

“Not interested.” Dallas responds, assembling Doll Number 55 and working on the next one. Jim hangs his head and keeps it moving, making his way to his cubicle to fill out some paperwork. The next coworker, the newbie, saunters up to him with a confidence Dallas could associate as alien.

“You look like you could enjoy a night on the town, hombre. Name your poison.”

Dallas is intrigued.

“Where you from?” Dallas asks. That sort of lingo sounds like Marco’s.

“B-K-L-Y-N. All day.” He pops his collar. Dallas snorts. He’s definitely from there. No one in this town has that kind of confidence.

“I’m from Harlem.”

“What part?”

“Miguel! Get back to work!”

“Shit, got to get back in my line. Catch me later on break, alright?”

“Yeah.” Dallas grunts.

Miguel nods his head and jogs back to his spot. 

It was lunch break. 

Darry’s busy talking to Jim and Bobby while Dallas sits at the side of the factory, smoking his cigarette and counting his money. With the remaining balance from his paycheck, he could afford a hamburger with a bag of chips. If he sneaks into the breakroom and fill up his canteen with coffee, he can get a decent beverage that’ll keep him awake. 

“Hey, Harlem!” 

Wolf whistle.

It’s Miguel.

He walks on over to him, hands in his pockets and a sandwich bag squished under his arm.

“I’ve been looking for you, man. Thought you bailed.”

“Need somethin’?”

“Nah, I just want to talk. We left off on when you were talking about Harlem.”

So he tells him. 

Harlem, New York, 1955

“Hey, white boy.”

Dallas whips his head around. 

He’d been playing wall ball with himself for the past fifteen minutes when two kids came down the steps and seen him. One is a light-skinned black girl in an olive green dress and long brown hair in pigtails and the other a dark-skinned black boy wearing scruffy sneakers, dirty jeans and a simple white t-shirt.

“You wanna play with us?” the black boy asks.

“Who are you?” Dallas asks.

“I’m Ricky, and this light-bright is my cousin Delilah.”

“Shut up, Ricky. You know you’re not supposed to call me that! I’m telling Momma.”

“Go ‘head, tattletale. Then I’ll tell her how you scuffed the new shoes she got you for church. Go ‘head.”

Delilah crosses her arms and purses her lips like she sucked a bad lemon. Dallas snickers.

“What you laughin’ at, white boy?” Delilah saunters over to him, her fist held up to his face. Dallas laughs even harder.

“Your face. You look like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.”

Ricky cackles.

“Boy, you funny. You got to play with us.”

“What you guys playing?”

“Old Man Cricket.”

“What’s that?”

“Follow us and you’ll see!” Delilah takes off upstairs, her pigtails slapping against her dress. Dallas got a peek of her panties and his cheeks burned hot.

“Come on, white boy. Let’s go!” Ricky grabs his arm and they race upstairs to catch up to Delilah. They make it to the 5th floor, sweaty and excited. 

“Where are we?”

“We need to get our boy Marco before we play.” Ricky explains. He knocks on the door and they wait a few seconds before the familiar click and slide of the latch happens and the door swings open to reveal a very tan little boy with curly hair and a smirk.

“What’s up…who’s the gringo?”

“The hell is a ‘green-go’?” Dallas fires back, feeling insulted. Is it some type of flamingo?

“It’s a…nevermind,” the boy sighs. He holds out his hand to shake. 

“My name is Marco. Yours?”

They shake hands.

“Dallas.”

“Like Texas? That’s pretty cool, man. You ride bulls and shit?”

“Marco Ruiz Jimenez!” a shrill cry slices through the room. A tall, curvy, tanned woman with dark brown hair down her back rushes over to the boy and smacks him upside the head.

“Language! You will not say such filth in my house! You hear me?”

“Yes, Mama. Please let go of my ear.” She grips it for good measure and eyes the three children. Embarrassed, she lets go of his ear and composes herself.

“Excuse Marco’s behavior. He knows better than to say such filth in this household. Why, hello, Delilah and Richard. How’s Miss Anna and Emelia?”

“Mom’s doing fine, Mrs. Jimenez. She’s working closer to the house and got a call from Daddy. He’s coming back from New Orleans,” Delilah responds.

“And Big Mama is thriving at her diner. She keeps talking about your famous banana bread.” Ricky adds. Mrs. Jimenez nods in approval.

“Well I’m glad. I’ll be sure to send you two home with a fresh batch. I even added the walnuts like she likes. Would you three like to come in for dinner? I just got done cooking and I don’t feel comfortable letting you guys play without adults watching you guys closely. It’s getting a little dangerous around here and I want you guys safe. I’ll phone in your parents and tell them you’re staying over.” She smiles. She gestures them in, eyeing Dallas with curiosity and warmth.

“I’ve never seen you before. What’s your name, hijo?”

“Dallas, ma’am.” 

“What a lovely name. Are your parents from Texas?”

“No, from Germany and Sicily.”

“What an…interesting combination.” She muses. She ushers him inside and closes her door.

Dallas is greeted by smells that are unfamiliar to him. He watches Delilah, Ricky, and Marco set the table and feels like an outsider.

“Dallas, can you help them with the dishes? The plates are awful heavy and I need a big, strong, boy like you to lift them.” She pats his arm and chuckles. Dallas giggles and grabs the plates. After the table is set, Mrs. Jimenez is on the phone and scooping up food from her pots and skillets.

“Yes, Miss Anna. They’re eating at my place and I’m sending them off with the bread I promised. Yes…yes, certainly...of course! Uh-huh…uh-huh…No problem at all…I’m sure he’d understand…I still got Delilah’s clothes from last time…uh-huh…uh-huh…I’ll see you in the morning after the kids go to school…God Bless.” She hangs up the phone.

“Guess who’s spending the night at our place tonight?” she announces the kids. The cousins cheer and applaud while Dallas looks on in confusion. Is this what kids do…go to strangers’ homes and spend the night? He literally just met these people today!

“Dallas, what are your parents’ phone number?”

“Uh..WInston 4-9871.”

She nods her head and dials the number.

“H-hello? Hi…this is Cassandra Jimenez, the neighbor on the 5th floor. I’m calling to ask if your son would like to stay the night with my son and the neighbor’s kids. I can assure you they’re in great hands and…uh-huh…my son’s name is Marco…he’s definitely a good boy…Yes, my door is 35E…uh-huh…yes…oh, I understand…not a problem at all…would you like him to come home after dinner? I have no problem walking him downstairs and giving you some of the Lemon Cake I just made as a welcoming gift…uh-huh…Yes, my number is JImenez 4-7234…uh-huh…God Bless.” She hangs up.

“Perhaps another time, I’m afraid. But your mother doesn’t mind you staying for dinner. Wash up and sit down with the kids.” She smiles at him, gesturing to the bathroom three doors down. Dallas makes his way in and is greeted by bright colors and a model of the Virgin Mary standing on the lid of the toilet, her dark eyes looking at him in the judgment from the reflection of the mirror. He washes his hands quickly and walks down to the kitchen and sits down. The food looks nothing like the potato pancakes and the alla ghiotta he’s used to eating; this food looks familiar and foreign all the same.

The plate has vibrant looking rice, meat that falls off the bone in a dark brown, almost purplish gravy substance, with crisp salad and fresh looking avocado slices.

“Try it, hijo. It won’t bite you.” Mrs. Jimenez goads. Dallas scoops up his fork and tries the meat. His mouth explodes in flavor…and heat. He’s hit with a burning sensation in his mouth; he sputters and coughs, reaching for the water and downing it in one gulp, only to choke on the liquid. Marco jumps into action, patting his back while Dallas tries to regain his composure.

“Hijo!” Mrs. Jimenez exclaims, grabbing his glass and refilling it with milk, “I should’ve warned you about the meat.”

“White boy can’t handle his flavor.” Ricky snickers. Delilah swats his arm, giggling. After Dallas corrected himself, he tries the rice. He likes it; it evens out the spice when he mixes it with the meat. He eats the salad and it’s pretty tasty; he crunches the lettuce with satisfaction and nibbles on avocado. He finishes his plate in a matter of minutes and dabs his mouth with a napkin.  
“Like it, hijo?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dallas replies.

“You want seconds?”

“Yes please.”

After his second plate, Dallas is walked downstairs with a mouthful of lemon cake by Mrs. Jimenez and the neighborhood kids. He makes it to the 3rd floor, his floor, and knocks on the door. His father answers, his expression stern and uncompromising.

“Hello, Mr. Winston. Here’s your son, well-fed and safe.”

“Thank…you.” He forced out, his accent thick and obvious. He is still learning English. He guides Dallas inside and squares off with Mrs. Jimenez.

“Here’s the cake I promised. I hope you and your family enjoy it. Here’s my address and phone number; be sure to give us a call in case you want a babysitter for Dallas. I’m more than happy to take over for you.” She smiles at him. Mr. Winston’s demeanor softens.

“Have…a good…day…Mrs….Jee-mean-ez.”

“Mrs. Jimenez, Mr. Winston.” She corrects calmly.

“Have a good evening, you guys. God bless.” She smiles before walking back upstairs, the kids following behind like ducklings. When Mr. Winston closes and locks the door, he looks over to his son.

“I can’t believe you had dinner with that wetback and those…pickaninnies.”

“Dad! Mommy said it was okay.” 

“What did I say was okay?” Mrs. Winston comes into the view, arms holding a fresh pot roast. Her green eyes flicker over to Dallas and she grins. 

“Hello, sweetie! How’s Mrs. Jimenez?” 

“She’s a really nice lady. I tried some of her cooking tonight. It was pretty spicy, but delicious. She even let me have seconds.” Dallas beams at her. Mrs. Winston sets down the pot roast and pulls a lock of her hair behind her ear. 

“That sounds lovely. Even though your appetite is spoiled,” she tickles his tummy, “I can be sure to save you some for tomorrow’s lunch. You can have ice cream.” 

“What flavor?” 

“Chocolate.” 

“Oh boy!” Dallas exclaims, jumping up and down from excitement. 

“But first, it’s time for a bath and for you to get in your pajamas for bed. After dessert, I’ll read you a bedtime story. Okay, honey?” 

“What story will we be reading?” 

“Hansel and Gretel.” 

“I love that story!” 

“I know. You can even snuggle with Mr. Teddy.” She holds up his freshly washed stuffed animal.  
Dallas holds Mr. Teddy in his hands. 

“I can’t believe you found him!” 

“He was hiding behind the washing machine. Poor thing was stuck.” 

“Thanks, Mommy.” He hugs her. 

“It’s all in a day’s work.” She hugs back. 

“This is where Old Man Cricket lives,” Delilah pants out, pointing to the last door at the end of the hall. They resumed his journey the day after, with Marco tagging along as the muscle. They’re on the 10th floor, the floor very few people live in due to the height and lack of proper renovations. The smell of piss, decay, and desperation is eminent, an omen for the kids to stay away. Dallas has an awful feeling in his gut that something bad is about to happen. The quad makes their way down the hall, a pungent smell creeping from the door. The kids shield their noses from the smell, Marco going as far as fanning the air. 

“Who died here?” Marco muses aloud. 

“Better yet, who lives here?” Ricky adds, scanning the desolate surroundings. 

“No one knows who lives here, but late at night you can hear the moans and wails. Back in the 20s, Old Man Cricket murdered his whole family and then himself. I think his old room is haunted. Legend has it that when you go in the room and say his name three times, he’ll appear out of thin air and make you his next victim!” she pounces on Dallas, making him jolt. She laughs. 

“She’s just fucking with you. Old Man Cricket is this mean old man who never talks to nobody, only yells at you and throws shit if you walk past his door. He has the best candy in his room, though. We’d knock on his door, lure him out, and we run in, grab the candy, trip him and we book it. Think you can handle it?” Ricky asks him. 

The spotlight is on Dallas. 

“Yeah, I’m down.” Dallas shrugs his shoulders, a move he adopted from the wise-guys that came down the avenue to collect debts. They nod their heads and knock on the door. Silence. 

“Old Man Cricket? You in there?” Delilah knocks harder. 

The door creaks open. 

The kids look at each other. 

“Something’s not right,” Marco whispers. 

“Think we should look inside?” Delilah inquires, her eyes wide and flitting back and forth. 

“The fuck we look like? Going into someone’s home without the say-so, getting into some shit we have no business getting in? I’m ready to bail.” He hisses back, ready to leave. Delilah grabs his wrist. 

“What, you’re chicken-shit now, Marco? Come on, man. The white boy has more balls than you. Right, Dallas?” 

Dallas is already inside. 

He assesses the damage; food looks old and moldy, the house a mess and reeking of filth and rot, and then, he’s hit with a stench that’s unforgettable. 

_Death._

His friends crowd around him, gagging on the smell. They smell it too. 

“Someone needs to crack a window in here! It stinks to high hell!” Ricky groans through his shirt. 

“Guys…do you hear that?” Dallas shushes them, listening sharply. 

Water. Water trickling down. 

“It’s coming from the bathroom.” Delilah whispers. They tip-toe through the hallway, the smell getting stronger with each step. Then they reach the bathroom, they’re greeted by a horrible sight. 

There, in the bathtub, decomposing at an alarming rate with a slit wrist, is Old Man Cricket. 

Their screams could be heard for a whole three blocks. 

“Some story you got there, Harlem.” Miguel says through the smoke in his nose. Dallas finishes his last cancer stick, looking out into the Tulsa sky. 

“Yeah, one of my many experiences in my youth.” Dallas chortles, remembering the teddy bear. 

“Want to hang out sometime tonight? If you’re not doing anything, that is.” 

“Nah, I need to sit this one out. It’s the anniversary.” 

“Of what?” 

“My mother’s death.” 


	3. Anniversary Cake

Dallas clocks out and makes his way out of the factory, wiping the sweat and grime off his face. He's tired and hungry; the only thing that's open this late is a diner two blocks from the factory.

Cajun Lonnie's is a new diner that's opened up on the outskirts of town, deep within the black demographic. It didn't bother Dallas one bit; he's not looking for trouble and he knows how to act. He walks in to the diner and takes his seat. He notices how silent the atmosphere is and he looks up.

Just about everyone in there is staring at him, some of them none too friendly.

It is so quiet you can hear a pin drop.

"Are you lost?" A sweet voice cuts through the air. It's a pretty dark skinned girl in a waitress uniform with the nametag that reads Shirley. Her pitch black hair is styled into a fluffy afro that hides her ears and frames her heart-shaped face. Dallas sees her curves, her delicate fingers gripping pen and paper and those shapely legs that give a peek of her upper thigh from the hem and feels stupefied.

"I'm right where I want to be," he answers, his voice unnaturally soft.

"Well, my name is Shirley, and I'll be your server for today. What would you like?"

Dallas looks up at the menu over Shirley's head and sees what he's looking for.

"Collard greens, mac 'n' cheese, fried chicken and hushpuppies with a side of candied yams and fried okra."

"You want some cornbread?"

"Do oranges grow on trees?"

Shirley smirks.

"Drink?"

"Iced tea. You think you got mint leaves back there?"

"No, we don't."

"That's fine.

"For here or to-go?"

"Here."

"You want some dessert?" Her soft brown eyes smile at him.

"New customers get a free dessert the first time they come in," she adds with a wink.

"Yeah." Dallas answers.

"What would you like?"

"Surprise me."

"Alright," she scribbles it down.

"What's your name?"

"Dallas."

"You from Texas?"

"No, New York."

"Okay. Sit tight and your food will be here in a couple of minutes."

"Thank you, Shirley."

"Anytime." She winks at him.

Dallas feels his stomach flutter.

When he was left alone, he pulls out the teddy bear he pocketed from work. It used to be so big when he was young, yet it's so small in his large palm. They don't make the teddies like they used to; it feels too mechanical, too impersonal and unfeeling. He squeezes the teddy bear's stomach and feels nothing.

"I miss you, Mom." He tells the teddy bear whose sad brown eyes stare back at him. He sighs and sets down the bear. He feels his eyes burn but pushes it down. He won't cry, he refuses to cry. He's been strong for this long; no need to go back now.

~~~

Harlem, New York, 1955

"Can someone please tell me what the fuck we just saw?"

Marco is pacing back and forth while Delilah is vomiting to the side. Dallas is stuck in place while Ricky is rubbing his eyes, trying to will the image away in his head.

Old Man Cricket is dead. Dead.

He'd been dead for a while; he's been sitting in his own rot for about a few days, the water accelerating his decomposition. To add more to the disgust, the stench has attracted flies and almost everywhere they stepped they were squishing into squirming maggots.

Delilah threw up all of her breakfast.

The four got out of there, screaming and trying to come to terms with what they'd just witnessed. This is the first time Dallas had seen a dead body, especially one this badly decaying. He was green, bloated, and stunk to high heaven; that image will haunt Dallas for as long as he lives.

"What we need to do is call the police. They're the only ones that can do something about it." Dallas reasoned, remembering the phone number his mother always told him in case of emergencies.

"I never thought I'd say this, but the white boy is right. We need to call the cops on this one. Let's get to my house and call." Marco guides them down to the 5th floor.

The cops came within hours. All the kids got was Old Man Cricket being wheeled out through the front door by a white sheet that's drenched in water. When his hand flopped out of the sheet, Delilah fainted on Ricky.

The kids' parents individually talked to them regarding Old Man Cricket's death, scrambling for a decent explanation regarding what they had seen. It didn't do that they all had nightmares that prevented them from getting up in the morning for school.

Dallas had it the worst; he'd have nightmares, panic attacks, and bedwetting incidents. He couldn't eat certain foods for weeks at a time and couldn't go to bed without his mother lying in it with him. It put a strain on the Winston household and Mr. Winston has had enough. Dallas tries to sleep, but can't help but hear his parents fight over him through the thin walls of his apartment.

"We need to do something about our son, Teresa. We are running out of sheets and we can't afford another mattress for him to soil!"

"What do you want me to do, Franz? Our boy has seen a dead body! He's way too young to understand death!"

"Because you keep babying him! We need to toughen him up and prepare him for the real world!"

"Honey, he's seven years old. He's a little boy, not a man. I think I have an idea." Dallas hears his mother's footsteps and feigns sleep. Mrs. Winston looks over at Dallas's silhouette; he could feel her sadness radiate in waves and feels guilt.

"Mommy, why am I spending the night at the Jimenez's?"

"Because Mommy has to work late and Papa needs to clean the linens again. I'll come get you in three days, okay?"

"Okay."

"Got your clothes?"

"Yep."

"Toothbrush?"

"Yep."

"Mr. Teddy?"

"Uh-huh."

"Flashlight for the boogeyman?"

"Uh-huh."

"Mommy's kisses?"

Before Dallas could respond, Mrs. Winston places numerous kisses on her son's face.

"Done and done," she chuckles against his cheek. He laughs heartily and they make it to the front door. After knocking, they're greeted by Delilah and Marco, dressed in their pajamas.

"Dallas," Marco greets. Dallas nods and they make their way in.

Ricky is in the kitchen helping Mrs. Jimenez cook while Mr. Jimenez is straightening out the pillows on his couch. Mrs. Jimenez looks over her shoulder and smiles.

"Hello, Mrs. Winston and hello, hijo!" she hugs them both, unaware that cake batter is smearing onto their faces. Mrs. Winston laughs, wipes the cake batter off her cheek and tasting it.

"Lemon cake?"

"Of course. And in a couple of hours, the carrot cake will be finished for you to take home. Dallas has everything?"

"Yes."

"Alright, I'll let Marco and Ricky get him settled in. I appreciate you letting him come, Mrs. Winston."

"Oh please, call me Teresa and anytime."

"Teresa, I think your son and my son will be the best of friends."

That night, Dallas shares a room with the boys while Delilah got the room closest to the bathroom. It's then Dallas wants to talk to them about last week's events.

"Did you guys ever think about Old Man Cricket?" Marco begins.

"Yeah, man. That was real foul, seeing him like that. I can't eat rice for a week because of him!" Ricky makes a face.

"I'm used to seeing them, you know. Dead bodies. Dad used to take me to his job where I'd see lots of 'em. He'd cut them open and stuff 'em, make 'em look real pretty, you know? But I've never seen one like that, though. Makes me wish that smell of formaldehyde was there to mask the smell."

"What's formaldehyde?" Dallas asks.

"This liquid that keeps people from rotting. It stinks really bad and makes people look waxy."

"Oh." Dallas hugs his pillow.

"It's your first time seeing one, is it?" Marco looks over at him.

"I know it's gross and even scary, but trust me, they won't do you no harm. It's just a body; the spirit is long gone and up to Heaven or down to Hell. Death is normal, it's a part of life."

"I don't want to die," Dallas mumbles into his pillow.

"We're all gonna die, Dal. Dad says dying is gonna happen to everyone. If everyone lived forever, the world would be overcrowded. Do you want to be 800 years old, where you're literally bones and skin?"

"Yuck!"

"Exactly!" Marco snaps his fingers. "So don't be afraid of death, Dallas. It's a part of life. I'm going to be dealing with death more than you; Dad says when I turn 17, I'm working with him in the funeral home. When I'm 25, I own the business."

"You have your whole life set up, Marco?" Ricky asks.

"Yeah. He wants me to carry on the family name. So I'm following into his footsteps and making him proud."

"That's cool," Dallas mumbles. He still feels scared about seeing Old Man Cricket in his dreams.

"Hey, man." Marco claps his hand on his shoulder.

"We need to lean on each other and stop letting what we saw scare us. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Now let's get some sleep. Mom's making some of her famous breakfast treats and whoever wakes up last has to clear the table."

"Aw, man!" Ricky groans, before flopping on the bottom bunk bed and Marco on the top. Dallas sleeps on the bed adjacent from his friends, trying to sleep, but finds himself unable to. To calm his nerves, he pulls out Mr. Teddy and feels a little bit calmer.

It's 5 in the morning when Dallas wakes up with a scream. He had a nightmare that Old Man Cricket grabbed Dallas and tried to drown him in the bathtub.

Marco and Ricky swing into action, flipping on the light and gripping baseball bats. Seeing a nonexistent threat, they look to Dallas.

"Boy, you out your cotton pickin' mind? What the hell are you shouting about?" Ricky hisses.

"I had a dream Old Man Cricket tried to drown me in the tub again!"

The boys sigh and put down the weapons.

"White boy...you working my last nerve." Ricky plops down on Dallas's bed. Marco sits on the other side.

"I really don't want to clear the table in the morning all because you have nightmares."

"It's not my fault! I can't help it!"

Marco and Ricky sigh.

"We know." They say in unison.

Dallas feels ashamed; he never asked to be such a burden on his new friends' backs.

"I'm sorry, guys."

"No need to be sorry. Ricky, go back to sleep. Dallas, follow me in the kitchen."

Wiping the leftover sleep from his eyes, Dallas follows Marco down the dark hallway for the kitchen. He flicks on the light and rummages through his refrigerator and pulls out what he's looking for. It's a murky, green fluid sloshing around in a jar, bubbles popping at the surface.

"What is that?" Dallas makes a face.

"Dreamcatcher Juice. It worked on Delilah and it'll work on you."

"What about Ricky?"

"Ricky's a big kid; he'd seen enough death to last him a lifetime. Now drink up." He pours a quarter glass full in a cup and hands it to Dallas. Dallas gives it a whiff and blanches.

"Yuck!"

"Hold your nose and drink it, dummy."

"Don't call me that."

"Just drink it."

Taking note of Marco's advice, Dallas pinches his nose and knocks it back. His body lurches forward from the awful taste, goosebumps riddling his skin and a fiery roaring in his gut took root. He coughs and jerks, pushing down the bile coming up.

"Chase it with water."

Don't need to tell Dallas twice.

As Dallas chugs glass after glass of water down his throat, he notices Marco looking at him, his expression unreadable.

"You're going to be up for a minute." Marco warned, "that's one of the side effects from the Dreamcatcher Juice."

"That's the worst thing I've ever tasted."

"Everyone says that. You'll be thanking me in the morning. Wanna talk?"

"Aren't we talking right now?"

"Smartass. I mean let's have a conversation. I sort of want to know why Ricky would invite you to play with us. No offense, but you're a white boy."

"What's me being white have to do with anything?"

"Whites and Coloreds don't have the best of relationships. The white kids used to call us names and give us shit because we look different than them."

"I've been made fun of too; they would call me names and try to steal my lunch. They'd call me Lederhosen and mock my Dad's accent."

"It's different. They make fun of you for the money in your pocket or the clothes on your back. They make fun of us for the color of our skin and the things we can't control." Marco looks away into the darkness.

"We made a promise to not even talk to the white kids, and here you are. White as a sheet with blond hair and blue eyes, like a true blue-eyed devil." He snorts, "funny how things turn out."

"Hey, what you two doing in the kitchen? This coffee hour or something?" Ricky comes into view, flashlight in hand. Delilah follows after, wrapped up in her blanket.

"I can't sleep." She pouts.

"I want to know why on Earth would you be friends with this gringo? He's clearly not like us." Marco points at him. Dallas snarls.

"Because I'm my own person. I'm not like anyone," he responds.

"That's your answer right there. He ain't like them rich boys. He's a gutter kid, just like us. He's tough. You see how he handled himself when he saw Old Man Cricket? He was cool, man. Cool as a cucumber and hard as ice. He's ice cold. Ice." Ricky beams at Dallas.

"Yeah, he did keep a cool head, especially after seeing his first body. You're pretty tough, white boy." Delilah pats his shoulder.

"Hmm…you got a point. He was pretty smart when we were all bugging over Old Man Cricket. If you earned their props, you've earned mine." Marco digs into the refrigerator for four Bubble Ups. When he pops off all four, he holds them up in the rising sun.

"To the new addition to our crew, Ice."

"Ice!" the cousins salute.

Dallas grins.

They clink glasses.

~~~

Here you go,"

Dallas's plate is placed on his table. It looks so appetizing; Dallas can't wait to eat.

"Got napkins, forks and spoons, and here's your iced tea."

"Thanks," Dallas replies, taking the utensils and sipping the tea. It's sweet with a hint of lemon. It doesn't compare to Ricky's mom's tea but it comes close.

"No problem. Let me know when you're ready to pay and I'll get you the check."

He nods at her. When Shirley leaves, he tears into his meal. It reminded him of Delilah's cooking, of cool September nights where Delilah invites him over for dinner to eat. If he closes his eyes he can almost feel them there. He closes his eyes and it's like he's back at his old home, on his 12th birthday, the first few years after his mother's death, celebrating his birthday and having fun with his friends. Delilah smearing cake frosting on his chin, Marco singing an off key tune, Ricky wearing a cheap tux and singing along with Marco. Every bite, every sip and slurp of the food brings him back to a better time, a happier time. When he finishes the last bite, the memories fade. His reality is staring back at him in the face. He's not twelve and in Harlem; he's seventeen and in Tulsa. His mother is dead and gone and his father is forever haunted by her memory.

There, as the nail in the coffin, is the lemon cake placed on his table. His mother's favorite and Mrs. Jimenez's specialty. He feels his throat catch and no matter he tries to fight it, it's fruitless; the tears fall and they won't stop. He's crying over his losses, the fact that he'd lost contact with his friends in three years. He cries until he feels better, until his demons are at bay and he can harden himself again.

"Sir?"

Dallas looks up.

Shirley is leaning over him, her big brown eyes filled with worry.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Dallas hastily wipes at his tears, "I just remembered something."


	4. Shirley

"Hello again, stranger."

Dallas looks up from his menu.

There, clear as day, in that damning waitress uniform that clings to her hips and highlights her bust, is Shirley. She's smiling at him, pen and pad in her hands, ready to write down his order.

"Hey, Shirley." Dallas responds, the tension in his brows loosening. He had a rough day at work; Jim kept annoying him about the Christmas party and a broken machine puts a dent in their production and their paychecks. Dallas is hit the hardest; his check got slashed by thirty percent and believe him he's pissed. It's not like he can complain; this is by far the only job that will take him and it's the first job he's actually liking. If it wasn't for the coworkers and the strengthening relationship with his father, he'd have walked out a long time ago.

"Will it be the usual?"

"Not today." Dallas starts. He hates being predictable. "I'll have something sweet today." He winks at her. She chuckles, obviously hearing that line way too many times.

"What will it be?"

"Hot chocolate with the marshmallows. A slice of German chocolate cake, and," he gets close to her, his lips caressing her ear, "your phone number."

That's when Shirley laughs.

She laughs so hard a few patrons turn their head to see the fuss. While she's laughing, Dallas is fuming. Is she laughing at him?

"Woo," Shirley wipes a tear from her eye, "that's the funniest thing anyone has ever said to me. You a comedian, sir?"

"No, I'm not." Dallas answers, trying to cool his burning ears and cheeks.

"I was being serious."

That's when the atmosphere got thick.

"Oh," Shirley begins. She bites her lip, looking down at her shoes while scribbling down the order.

"I'm sorry, I really thought…" Shirley averts her eyes, "The order will be here shortly." She takes his menu and scurries away.

Dallas sits at the diner, tapping his fork against the napkin he folded, unfolded, and folded again. He just wants to get his food and get the hell out of here; he's been humiliated enough. Part of it was his fault; what business he had asking for her number? It was meant as a joke, but when she laughed like that, it felt the joke was on him. One of the easiest ways to get under his skin and make his blood boil is to make a joke out of him. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. She's the only waitress who's around his age and is nice, she is easy on the eyes and not once has she…

Something shines on the ground.

He looks down and sees a shiny purple pen gleaming in the sunlight. It looks just like Shirley's. He twirls it around in his hand. In cursive inscription, the word 'Shirley' shines back at him.

It's definitely Shirley's.

Dallas clicks the pen fifteen times before his food arrives. He's waiting for the airy voice of Shirley, only to hear a deep, raspy, and gruff baritone of a burly man who's three shades darker than her, his dark gray hair standing out against his skin. He nearly slams Dallas's food on the table and walks off before Dallas could say anything. He stares at his food and frowns. Someone clearly spit in his hot chocolate, the German Chocolate cake has a few hairs on it and it smells like someone wiped their ass with it. He pushes the food away. He's officially lost his appetite.

He strolls over to the counter, fists clenching and unclenching, jaws fighting to not grind his teeth, and slams on the bell. The burly man appears, eyes hard and his lips smug.

"Can I help you, suh?"

Dallas has two options: ask about the pen, or complain about the service. He's not a Soc who whines about every little thing, but that food was very disrespectful and there was no goddamn way he's going to give a penny for that awful food. However, he wants to know about Shirley so he could give her her pen back. Weighing the options, he chooses the first.

"You know where Shirley is? She dropped her pen and I want to give it back to her."

"She ain't here. She got off work five minutes ago. You can hand me the pen and I'll give it to her when she gets back."

He hands out his large palm for the pen and Dallas clutches the pen even tighter. Who knows where his hands have been.

"I'd like to give it to her myself." Dallas replies, before turning on his heel and leaving the diner.

~~~

He sits on the bus, hands holding on to Shirley's pen. He replays today's events over and over in his head, remembering Shirley's mortified face when she learned he wasn't joking. Was he joking at all? Was he being serious or was he saying that to save face? He doesn't know anymore.

He doesn't want to end the conversations he has with her; she's really sweet and she makes his long days at work bearable with her smile and charm. He pulls out the pen, thumbing the cursive lettering of her name. The pen is a pretty one; one made for schoolgirls who want to be nurses or housewives in the hills. Is she a rich girl? Does she come from a good family? Is she trying to be a nurse? All questions spinning in his head as he studies the pen, trying to get a feel of who she is.

He leaves the bus, pen in his pocket warming his palm as he walks down the cold streets, blocks away from his home. The numerous scenarios and methods of talking to his favorite waitress stops when he notices the fluffy afro, the shapely legs, and the dark chocolate skin. She has her back facing him, hunched over and rummaging through something. Curious, Dallas gets closer.

"Where is that goddamn pen? I know I had it somewhere. There's no way I could've lost it. That was my favorite pen!"

"Ahem," Dallas coughs. The woman jumps and turns to face him.

It's definitely Shirley.

"Woah, cool. I don't want any trouble." Dallas holds his hands up. Shirley's wound body eases, eyes sizing him up.

"Were you looking for me?"

"No, I live a few blocks down from here."

"Oh," Shirley softens, "Look, I am really sorry about…"

"There's no need to apologize," Dallas digs into his pocket and retrieves her pen.

"Asking for your phone number ain't really that original."

"My pen!" Shirley gasps. She grabs it and urgently places it in her purse.

"Thank you so much! You have no idea how much that pen meant to me!"

"You're welcome, man. Just wanted to do the right thing."

Shirley smiles.

"Thank you."

"All in a day's work."

"Um…it's getting late, and I really have to get going home."

"I'll walk you there. A pretty lady like yourself got no business walking home in the dark alone. C'mon." he motions with his head for her to walk by his side. She twists her lips, unsure of what decision to make, but decides to walk with him.

The walk was off to an awkward start. Dallas didn't know what to say and Shirley keeps looking over her shoulder.

"What do you keep looking over your shoulder for?" Dallas asks.

"Nothing. It's just, I'm not supposed to be walking alone with a stranger."

"We're far from strangers. I always go to your diner and we talk almost every day."

"That's different. That is business. What we're doing right now is outside of work. I don't even know if Dallas is your real name."

"It is. I'm well known around these parts."

"Clearly not if I didn't know you. I've been living here my whole life."

"Well, I'm well known around the cops and the Greasers. They know me as Dally."

"Dally. What an…interesting name."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Look, I'm sorry for laughing at you today. I'm not used to someone like you coming on to me. I thought you were trying to pull my leg."

"Someone like me?"

"Yeah…white."

Ice fell into the pit of his stomach.

"Well, there's my house." They stop to the walkway of a modest two story home with beautiful hedges and a manicured lawn. It'd look almost perfect, if it weren't for the crude paint on the garage door that reads, "GO HOME, NIGGERS. WHITES ONLY."

Dallas balks at the sign.

"What the hell is that?"

"Welcoming gift from the neighbors." She sneers. She knocks on the door. A black man answers; it's the same man from the diner, sans the chef hat and scowl. He looks at Shirley with a grin, but when he sees Dallas, he glowers.

"Uncle Red, this is Dallas. He walked me home tonight and gave me back my pen." Shirley explains. Uncle Red grunts and chins up at Dallas.

"White boy!" he barks. Dallas stands at attention.

"Tell your kind that we enjoyed the new hate mail thrown in my back window. The death threats towards my wife, sister, and the kids were real creative. And you tell that neighbor three doors down that it's gonna take more than cheap paint on my garage door and bricks in my window for me to pack my bags and run. If it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get."

After Shirley is safely inside, Uncle Red spits at the ground, never avoiding eye contact, and slams his door.


	5. Let's Be Kids Again

Dallas makes it to his father's in less than fifteen minutes.

He opens the door and is greeted by the familiar smell of meat and potatoes. His father is cooking.

"Welcome home, son!" His father greets from the kitchen.

"I'm surprised you're here, old man. Normally you'd be at your job." Dallas retrieves a beer from the fridge.

"I took the day off. I thought about what you said and I want to make things right by spending time with you." Mr. Winston sets down the dinner for the evening. Bratwurst, potato pancakes, with a side of canned green beans. Dallas can't blame him for trying; it's been years since his father cooked anything for the two of them. He helps himself to the meat and pancakes while ladling a spoonful of green beans.

"A little too late for that, old man. But I appreciate the effort." Dallas knocks back his beer. "I'm working now and I'm still living with Buck. At least now I can pay some more bills."

"I know. I want to celebrate." Mr. Winston holds up his beer. "To manhood."

"To manhood."

They clink bottles.

"I see you've been staying out of trouble. That's good."

He had no other choice; the long hours left him tired and ready to hit the floor. He sleeps more now, crashing at Darry's for a few winks before heading out to finish his shift. His long hours make him lose time spent partying and fighting with his friends, though none of them complained; a working man is an honorable one.

"Yep." Dallas responds, sipping on his beer.

What's there to talk about? Birds and the Bees? Work? The true work of being a man? The news?

"So," Mr. Winston slices through his meat, "how was work?"

"Fine. Nothing happens out of the ordinary, other than having the most annoying coworkers. The boss is a pain in the ass who slashes checks when things don't go as planned."

"It's a part of life, working with people you don't necessarily like," He chews his food, "My boss is a buffoon as well."

Dallas chuckles.

Before the conversation could go further, the telephone rings.

"I'll get it," Mr. Winston rises and walks over to the telephone.

"Hello…yes…he's here right now…May I ask who I'm speaking to? Yes…okay…Dallas!"

Dallas walks over to the phone.

"For you," Mr. Winston mouths.

Dallas picks up.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

"Who is this?"

"It's Shirley. I noticed you scribbled your number on a piece of paper that you hid in my pen. You're clever."

He grins.

"I try."

"Look, I'm sorry about my uncle's behavior. He's not the most…accepting of whites, especially after the incidents that have been happening since we moved to this part."

"I thought you've been living here your whole life."

"I have, just not in the white part. We've moved here months ago and we've been receiving death threats. I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I hardly even know you."

"First time for everything, right? Let's work on getting to know each other. You seem like a cool chick, you dig?"

She giggles.

"Are you really from New York?"

"Yep. Born and raised."

"What's it like?"

"Big, noisy, full of art and full of food. I never really explored it that much; the most distance I had was from the streets of my projects."

"You're from the projects?"

"Yeah, in Harlem."

"Oh."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Purple. And yours?"

"I ain't got no favorite color."

"Alright. What's your sign?"

"Sagittarius. Yours?"

"Pisces."

"Pisces are supposed to be the pretty ones. I guess they're right."

He can hear her smile.

"You live with your uncle?"

"Yeah, I live with him, his wife, my mom, and my cousins."

"You an only child?"

"No. My big sister is in college down in Atlanta and my brother lives with my dad in Vermont."

"You going to school?"

"Yeah. I'm going to Morehouse in the Fall. I'm studying to be a journalist."

"That sounds pretty tuff."

"What does 'tuff' mean?"

"It means something cool, like…Elvis Presley or James Dean."

"I'm not a fan of either. I'm more of a Sidney Poitier or Eartha Kitt fan."

"Who are they?"

She laughs softly.

"People I adore."

"Are you free for the holidays? I'm off work for a few days since Christmas is around the corner. We can go to this spot I used to visit where the snow covers everything. It's real quiet, and it looks really pretty when the sun sets."

"Are you asking me on a date, Dallas?"

"Yeah. I am."

A pause.

"It's a date."

"Okay. I'll pick you up at 8."

"I work at 8."

"I'll pick you up when you get off work."

"…okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright."

"Goodnight, Dallas."

"Goodnight, Shirley."

He hangs up.

"Who's the lovely lady?" Mr. Winston asks.

"This cute girl I met at a diner."

Dallas breezes through work. He clocks in, chit-chats with Darry and Miguel, dodges Jim's conversation and produces more toys than ever. When it was time to clock out, he punches out without so much as a word to his boss. He bolts home, showers, irons his T-shirt and picks out his best leather jacket. He has to look his best.

He looks in the mirror and fluffs his hair, only for his wispy curls fall and kiss his face. He may have inherited his blond hair and blue eyes from his father, but his curls come from his mother. Sighing, he tries in vain to get them out of his face.

"Fuck it." Dallas shakes his head and walks out his room. Buck is cooking something on the stove when he notices Dallas run out.

"Hey, man!" he hollers after him, "Where you running off to? I haven't seen you in weeks! I thought I was rooming with a ghost or something!"

"Hot date tonight." Dallas hollers back, slamming the door.

"By the way, I'm borrowing your car."

He pulls up to Cajun Lonnie's and walks right in. He takes a seat, eyes scanning over for Shirley. When he sees a fluffy afro, dark chocolate skin, and those bright brown eyes, Dallas's stomach flutters.

"Hello, stranger." She smiles at him.

"Hello, gorgeous."

She's wearing a black turtleneck, blue jeans, and a heavy leather jacket and a pair of black boots. Her big earrings and dramatic eyes draw his attention; he has a thing for eyes.

"Ready to go?"

"After you." He opens the door for her.

"Goodnight, Tim!" She hollers out after her coworker, and Dallas closes the door.

"I never really come to places like this," Shirley confesses. They've been driving down the streets and avenues of the fancier side of town. They've passed closed restaurants, boutiques, a few Mom and Pop businesses before they settled on a nice neighborhood. Dallas pulls over, locks the doors, and guides Shirley out of the car.

"Because you're a lady. Ladies got no business prowling the streets alone. It's dangerous." Dallas looks back and forth before letting Shirley cross the street, following behind her like a bodyguard. When they reach a sidewalk, Dallas nudges her to the middle while he walks on the side of the curb.

"Thank you," she says.

"Anytime."

"It looks so amazing tonight."

The neighbors have strung up their Christmas lights; everything seemed to glow gold, red, and green.

"It gets even better; the Johnsons have their houses decorated to the nines every year. It looks like Winter Wonderland." Dallas points to the house that greets their focal point, glowing in blues and whites. As he gets lost in the countless memories sneaking over to see the lights, a cold blast hits him in the back. He whips his head around and sees Shirley scrambling to make another snowball.

"You're gonna get it now," Dallas snarls. He balls up the biggest snowball he could make and throws it at her. She yelps; the snowball hits her in the stomach.

"I'm really gonna get you now!" Shirley fires back. She forms another snowball and chucks it at him. He ducks, scoops up some snow, and throws it at her. She shrieks and runs away from him, throwing snow at him as she runs. Dallas catches up to her and throws a barrage of snowballs at her, each one making her lose her balance. She falls in the snow, shaking with laughter. Dallas stands over her, his face red and grinning like a schoolboy. He holds his hand out for her to take. Expecting her to use his hand to lift her up, he was pulled face first into the snow. Wiping the snow from his face, he rolls on his back and chuckles.

"It's been a while since I played in the snow like this." Shirley breathes out.

"It's been a while since I had a snowball fight." Dallas replied.

"I feel like ten again. Feel like making snow angels."

"What's stopping you?"

"I just did my hair and it's too cold."

"Fair enough." He looks up at the sky. Stars are twinkling, giving them a celestial view.

"It's lovely up there." Shirley says.

"I know. But it's not as lovely as you," he looks over at her. Shirley snorts.

"You're so cheesy!" she giggles.

"I'm trying to be romantic and sweet here. This is a date, after all."

"You can still be sweet without being cheesy. We're getting to know each other, remember?"

Her eyes meet his.

"Yeah."

He's staring at her lips.

"Hey, aren't we going to check out Johnson's place and hit that spot you've been talking about?"

"Yeah, let's go." He stands up and pulls her to him.

"Watch your step," he says in her ear. Those soft brown eyes flicker over to his blue ones. Their bodies melded together, under the glow of tacky Christmas lights, in the dead of night where nothing can be heard but their breaths; it was something of romance novels. Shirley's nose touches his, her lips centimeters away from his. They lock eyes, and in a matter of seconds, her lips touch his.

It's a chaste kiss; a quick peck and she jerks back, eyebrows crossed with worry.

"What's wrong?"

"We're moving a little fast. We need to take it…"

"Hey," he grabs her chin. "Don't think about it, just…let it happen."

He kisses her again.

When the kiss deepens, Dallas feels a burst of pride when he hears her soft moan. He wraps his arms around her shoulders, hands caressing the back of her head. They pull away, panting. Shirley's lip gloss gone, Dallas's face is smeared with the substance and it smells faintly of strawberries. He licks his lips and wipes the gloss off his face.

"Woah," she pants out.

"Yeah." He replies.

"What the hell is going on?"

The two jump. The owner of the brightly colored home is standing at the foot of the door, eyes wide as saucers and jaw hanging to the ground.

"You goddamned kids better get the hell off my lawn before I put my foot in both of your asses!" he yells.

"Shit, c'mon, let's go!" Dallas grabs Shirley's hand and they run to the car. Dallas starts the ignition and pulls off. They're driving down the road, and he hears her giggle. Within seconds, he giggles too.


End file.
